


five o'clock sunset

by oryx



Category: Mirai Sentai Timeranger
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22693498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: Easing back into life in the 31st century is a many-staged process.
Relationships: Domon/Shion (Timeranger), past Domon/Moriyama Honami
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	five o'clock sunset

**Author's Note:**

> aka the one where domon is really bad at dealing with feelings but like, can you blame him?  
> happy 20th birthday timeranger!! (2/13) wanted to post smth for the occasion but also it felt right to split this in half. 2nd part coming... soon. let's hope

  
It starts when he sees her on the street.  
  
She passes by in the periphery of his vision, chatting away with a friend, and he stops in his tracks as if struck by a bolt of lightning; lunges out to grab her by the arm, heart racing as he says “Honami-chan” with a raw sort of desperation –  
  
And the woman, with a similar face and voice and build but who is very much a stranger, blinks back at him in wide-eyed alarm.  
  
“Can – can I help you?” she asks.  
  
He can feel his face fall. Something plummets in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Needless to say, he has a bad day after that.  
  
How could he even make that mistake? He asks himself over and over as he wanders into work in a daze, twenty minutes late. He knows what time he’s in. Yeah, alright, he’d had that incident in the early morning a few weeks ago where he’d mumbled, “Tatsuya, turn the alarm off,” before a moment had passed and he’d opened his eyes and remembered that he wasn’t in Tomorrow Research anymore, that Tatsuya wasn’t there.  
  
But that doesn’t count, right? Half asleep, still half in a dream. When he’s awake, he should be fine. Not “temporally compromised” or anything, like the lady keeps asking him when she calls to “check up on his adjustment back into present-day society.” It was a mistake telling her that it happened to him once before. He wonders if the others get half as many “wellness calls” as he does.  
  
He gets yelled at, in the end. Saiki-san smacks him round the head as he stands at the stove, and he snaps back to reality just in time to see the pot on the verge of boiling over, the noodles inside unsalvageable, melded together into a depressing clump.  
  
“That’s the third batch you’ve ruined today,” Saiki-san says grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose, the furrow of his brow more severe than it’s ever been. “Care to explain what’s going on with you?”  
  
Domon shifts his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, hands clasped in front of him. “Well. That’s kind of – ”  
  
Saiki-san holds up a hand. “Y’know what? I don’t even want to know. Obviously you’ve got some shit going on. Take the rest of the day off, work it out, and don’t bring it back with you tomorrow. Got it?”  
  
Domon ducks his head in agreement, sheepish, and knocks over a pan with a clatter as he fumbles to untie the strings of his apron.  
  
When he gets home, he spends a long time just lying facedown on the couch. This is stupid, he tells himself, face smushed against the worn old fabric. What is he doing? Getting distracted over what? Not even the woman herself so much as the idea that he might be the weakest link among the Timerangers once again – “mentally fragile” or some shit like that, prone to his own senses playing tricks on him.  
  
He’s starting to feel a hollow ache forming between his ribs as he remembers how stupidly happy he’d been in that split second before he’d reached out for her and she’d really looked at him –  
  
“It’s 3001, dumbass,” he mutters.  
  
Maybe he’ll start repeating that into the mirror every morning until his subconscious learns it, too.  
  
The dead, crushing silence of the apartment isn’t helping him right now. He drags his watch up to his face; mumbles “call Shion” and follows the little circle with his eyes as it swirls around, waiting to connect.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now, Domon-san?” Shion says as soon as he picks up.  
  
Domon groans and pushes himself up into a sitting position with some difficulty. “Got sent home early.”  
  
“Why? Are you sick?” The instant surge of concern in his voice only makes his chest ache more.  
  
“No,” he says. Pauses. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“I’ll stop at the store on the way home and get some supplements just in case. It’s better to be safe than sorry. There’s that new ‘Panacea’ that’s supposed to cure anything minor in one day for you humans – ”  
  
“Don’t,” Domon says sharply, cutting him off. In the stretch of surprised silence from the other end of the line he scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not sick, I’m just… out of it today, I guess.” He clears his throat, and instills some forced casualness into his voice as he continues: “How’s it going over there? Get any justice done today?”  
  
Shion hums thoughtfully. He can picture him tapping whatever tool he might be holding – wrench, screwdriver – against his shoulder.  
  
“I’m not sure. I hope so. I got a chance to talk to Arima-san since he had to come in to get his tablet fixed. And I think he was agreeing with my stance. So I’m going to cross my fingers that he’s one we can count on. Though I think they might be rescheduling it again, which is. Complicating things.”  
  
Domon can feel himself making a less than enthused face. He tries to be supportive, really he does, but he doesn’t quite get how Shion can stand working for that place after everything they put them through. And it’s been a goddamn disaster zone ever since the Captain’s death. People quitting en masse, being fired, re-hired, re-structured. It’s been almost half a year and the media is still swarming like blood-hungry sharks over the story of the high-ranking time officer who abused his position so severely, and they’ve dredged up even more sordid tales besides.  
  
Shion, though, seems determined to try and shape the TPD into something better. Helps that even the most influential board members have a certain respect for him, both as a Timeranger and as one of the only truly talented tech guys left in their ranks. He’s already managed to subtly influence a vote to abolish cryofreezing for all but the most “extreme offenders,” citing it as an “unjust and cruel” method of incarceration. Now he’s attempting to pull the strings on the debate of where to put the prisoners once they’ve been unfrozen, applying pressure on the idea of a well-funded “rehabilitation center” without the harshness of your typical prison.  
  
Domon doesn’t entirely get that part either, he has to admit. Caring so much about the welfare of criminals. Maybe he’s too old-fashioned for the 31st century, still stuck somewhere in the classic pro fighting storylines he grew up on, where the good were good and the bad were bad and that was the whole of it. But he likes to see it: that spark in Shion’s eyes when he gets going on the _it’s about the basic rights of personhood on planet Earth, Domon-san, it’s an issue that affects us all_. If Shion believes in it as a cause, then he supposes, on some level, he does too.  
  
Shion brings home medicine despite his earlier protests.  
  
“They were sold out of that Panacea,” he says, frowning as he rummages through the bag, “but I got something for colds, and for allergies, and this one’s for thetavirus which I hope you don’t have because I was reading about that and it sounds really awful? And here’s some vitamins, too. I hope they’re the right kind.”  
  
He presses the bottle into Domon’s hands. They aren’t the right kind at all.  
  
He stares down at it with a tight feeling in his throat and a bitter taste in his mouth.  
  
This level of thoughtfulness is typical for Shion, of course, but today it feels like a burden. The crushing weight of being given something he doesn’t deserve.  
  
“Thanks,” he says shortly. “I told you not to, though.”  
  
Shion blinks, lips parted in a startled expression that shifts into an apologetic smile a moment later. “Oh,” he laughs. “Yeah, I guess you did. Sorry. You know I get carried away sometimes.”  
  
He finds himself thinking it often, but now especially: that Shion is too good for everything and everyone. Too good for the TPD, for the criminals he’s bent on saving, for this rundown little apartment. Too good for Domon.  
  
“I’m going to bed early,” he says stiffly, turning away. “I picked up some dinner, so. It’s there if you want it. G’night.”  
  
“Oh. Well. Good night,” is Shion’s quiet reply from behind him. “I hope you feel better tomorrow.”  
  
Domon pauses in the doorway. “Yeah,” he says, voice hollow. “Me too.”  
  
  
  
  
  
He does, is the thing. He wakes up feeling far more clear-headed, and it’s like. Like yesterday was all a fluke. Today will be better, he decides. No more stupid mistakes.  
  
“It’s 3001, dumbass,” he says into the mirror, giving himself the most comically stern look he can muster.  
  
Shion has left him breakfast on the table, an adorably misshapen omelet, along with one of his usual scribbled notes on the holoscreen. It hovers there as Domon finishes heating up the meal and takes a seat. _Had to go in early. The main servers got hit again. ^_^; Have a good day!_  
  
The TPD has been the victim of multiple hacking attempts since everything went to shit – he assumes this must be yet another of them. _You deserve to be paid like four times what they’re paying you, I swear,_ he keeps telling Shion, who laughs and shrugs it off each time. Nothing is ever really about the money for him, he supposes, munching thoughtfully on his breakfast.  
  
(Speaking objectively, as a newly identified chef of sorts himself, he knows that Shion is an awful cook. An inexplicable one, more like. He has absolutely no sense as to normal human ingredient usage, throwing things together that have no business being in the same dish, as evidenced by the… fish and sweet pickles? In this omelet?  
  
Somehow it always tastes fine to Domon, though.)  
  
He makes it into work with no issue today; steps into the kitchen and gives Saiki-san his usual grin and slap on the back in greeting, who regards him warily for a moment before giving a small, approving nod in return. And it’s – normal. The day passes by in complete and utter normalcy. He never thought he’d be so grateful for that. He sees all the regulars come and go: is informed by old man Fujita of who won the game yesterday, overhears the usual complicated business talk from that group of salarymen who always sit at the same table in the corner. He chats with Saiki-san’s other lackey, Charlie – nice girl, from a planet called ‘Yobb,’ apparently, and she told him when they met that her people are in fact born with the gemstone-looking things inlaid along their forehead.  
  
It’s in that slow period between lunch and dinner, his shift almost up and the light outside growing dimmer, that he looks up from washing dishes to see his second eldest brother step through the front entrance with his wife and kid in tow.  
  
“Tappei?” he says, startled.  
  
His brother’s face lights up. “Hey, Domon! Hope you don’t mind us dropping by.”  
  
That’s right, he remembers in a dawning moment. He _had_ told Tappei at least where he was working. He dries his hands before ducking out from behind the counter to meet them.  
  
“Wait, you didn’t tell any of the others where to find me, did you?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “I trust you not to cause trouble for me, but not the rest of those idiots. Goro and Junpei are especially banned. And if _mom_ shows up here – I dunno, dude. I’d probably quit on the spot.”  
  
Tappei rolls his eyes and laughs and pulls him into a one-armed hug, surprisingly tight, like he’s never been more relieved to see him. “Your secret’s safe with me, man.”  
  
Arisa hugs him tight, too, gushing about how handsome he looks in his shop uniform, to which he can only smile awkwardly in return. He’s long over it, of course, but having a mortifying crush on your brother’s girlfriend as a teenager is an experience that never totally leaves you.  
  
And then there’s Aoi, hiding behind her mom’s legs and staring up at him warily. He crouches down to give her a broad smile.  
  
“Yo, Aoi-chan, you remember me? Uncle Domon?”  
  
She tilts her head to the side. Clutches the colourful stuffed cat plushie she’s carrying a little tighter.  
  
“Guess it has been months,” he muses. “And you’ve got way too many uncles to keep track of, huh?”  
  
“Doesn’t help that some of them are so hard to get a hold of these days,” Tappei says, arching an eyebrow.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Domon mutters as he gets back to his feet. “You guys want something to drink? It might be on the house depending if it’s cheap enough.”  
  
“So,” Tappei says, giving him one of those Looks he inherited from their old man. Saiki-san has waved him away from dishwashing duty, and so he’s joined them at one of the tables, the three of them adults nursing a beer as Aoi scribbles away in an art program on her mom’s tablet. “What’s been going on with you?”  
  
“…You wanna hear something in specific?”  
  
Arisa leans in, conspiratorial. “Your mom is convinced you’re going to get married without telling her. Or that you eloped already, even.”  
  
Domon promptly chokes on his sip of beer. “With _who_?” he manages to wheeze.  
  
“I mean,” Tappei says drily. “The obvious answer would be this mystery person none of us have met who you’ve been living with since you got back.”  
  
“Wh – no! It’s not. It’s not like that with Shion, okay? We’re just friends. Roommates.”  
  
Tappei and Arisa exchange a glance that seems suspiciously incredulous.  
  
“Sure. So then it’s no big deal if you move back home and he has to find another roommate, right?”  
  
“Move back…?” He gives him a blank look, drink halfway to his lips. “Why the hell would I do that?”  
  
“Mom misses seeing you,” Tappei says with a shrug. “You ‘don’t drop by as often as you used to.’ And she needs someone to help her with things around the house now that dad’s thrown out his back one too many times. Haruo tries sometimes but you know he’s useless at things like that.”  
  
Domon massages his temples tiredly. “No, listen, I can’t just – leave Shion to fend for himself, alright? He’s some kind of genius, okay, and he knows so much about stuff that I don’t understand at all, but. He’s got like zero common sense sometimes and he doesn’t know how to do a lot of basic life stuff? He needs somebody there.”  
  
“And that somebody has to be you, huh?”  
  
Domon blinks.  
  
“Well… no,” he says slowly. “I guess it doesn’t.”  
  
He was thinking it just yesterday, wasn’t he? That he wasn’t good enough. Maybe it _would_ be better, if Shion found someone else to live with. Someone who would always be able to accept his kindness with a smile.  
  
Tappei’s lips twitch. “And mom will be _so_ happy to hear that you didn’t get married on the sly, because she has a bunch of ‘respectable’ matchmaking options for you.”  
  
Domon winces. This is exactly why he’s been spending less and less time with his family since his return from 2001. With mom especially, it’s always about who’s getting engaged, who’s having a baby, who _could_ be getting engaged and having a baby if they would only get their act together and listen to her sagely advice. And his brothers have all wised to the fact that Domon is logically next in line for such things. The classic goal of “finding someone nice and settling down.”  
  
How can he tell any of them? How could he ever explain it? That he came so close to finding it, that perfect ideal his family wants for him, except there’s now a yawning gulf of a thousand years between her and him.  
  
There it is again: that hollow ache in his chest from yesterday. He takes a hurried swig of beer to try and ease it.  
  
“I dunno, man,” he says finally. “Maybe… it _would_ work out better. If I moved back home for a while. I’ll think on it, okay? But don’t say anything to mom about it yet. Please.”  
  
Tappei nods; raises his own drink in a silent cheers of support.  
  
“You know,” Arisa says a moment later, her smile cautious, “if you ever need to talk about anything… We’re here for you, Domon-kun.”  
  
He’s always been easy to read, he supposes. Wears his emotions on his sleeve.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, voice somewhat thick. “Seriously.”  
  
They’re good people. He knows he’s lucky to have them – that not everyone is blessed with family members who are kind and calm and understanding. Maybe someday he _will_ be able to tell them the whole story.  
  
Not today, though. And later, as he stands outside the restaurant in the purplish evening to see them off, he watches Arisa stop to patiently re-do her daughter’s pigtails that are falling loose, Tappei reaching down for Aoi’s small hand with a smile after his wife is finished, and. He feels like a crushing weight is bearing down on him. They’re not so far away, but it seems as if he were watching them from a great distance. Peering through thick glass into a different world.  
  
He’s grateful when he gets home that the apartment is quiet and dark, Shion still undoubtedly cleaning up whatever mess the TPD has handed him today. He’s not there to worriedly ask if Domon’s alright as he once again forgoes anything else and falls into bed, lying there with his thoughts turning over and over for a long time before sleep finally takes hold.  
  
  
  
  
  
He wakes up to the muffled sounds of choreographed fictional sword fighting.  
  
“This a new one?” he asks as he steps into the room, hiding a yawn behind his hand, and Shion turns his head to beam at him. His knees are drawn up to his chest, and he’s wearing that one grey hoodie of Domon’s that he’s all but stolen at this point, his hair sticking up in the back like it’s been smushed against a pillow for most of the night. On the screen, two men in dramatic historical costumes stare each other down amid a flurry of vivid autumn leaves, hands on the hilts of their blades.  
  
“It’s called _Bushido King_ ,” Shion says brightly. “I’m up to episode fourteen now!”  
  
Domon sinks down on the couch next to him with a frown, draping his arm around the back of Shion’s seat unconsciously. “Thought you were into ninjas.”  
  
“Oh, I still am. But I’m really getting into samurai lately, too, y’know? Takeshi-san recommended this one to me and it’s so good. I’ve been sending him all my reactions even though he’s been asleep. Hope he doesn’t mind.”  
  
“Takeshi… That coworker?”  
  
“Mm-hmm.”  
  
He can feel his frown gradually deepen into a scowl. This guy again. Seems his name is always coming up.  
  
But no, he tells himself a second later, straightening in his seat, shaking his head to clear that odd, bitter feeling away. No, it’s… good, isn’t it? That Shion has someone else he’s so close to. Who he can talk with about his favorite shows that Domon tries to pay attention to when they watch them together, really he does, but it’s just not his thing –  
  
“This Takeshi guy,” he starts slowly, “you really like him?”  
  
“Hm? Yeah, of course. He’s really nice and patient and I can always count on him to get things done on time. And he brings me lunch whenever I forget to eat.”  
  
Something twists sharp in the pit of Domon’s stomach.  
  
“And he’s… what? Single? Married?”  
  
Shion’s brow knits together endearingly as he ponders this. “Um. I think he’s single? He’s never mentioned a spouse or a girlfriend or boyfriend or anything.” He turns away from the screen again to give Domon an odd look. “Why’re you asking about him, though?”  
  
He shrugs a shoulder, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s just. You talk about him a lot. You ever thought maybe… you might like him in the romantic way? Or that he might be into you?”  
  
Shion’s eyes are suddenly very round. “I… don’t know. I never really considered it.” He fiddles absently with the hoodie’s sleeve. “Wouldn’t he have told me if he was?”  
  
Domon huffs out a wry laugh. “Listen. People are super dodgy and bad at this sort of shit. But there’s no way this dude is kindly buying you lunch on the regular without wanting to date you. I’m telling you now, man: he’s got it bad.”  
  
“Wow,” Shion murmurs. He hugs his knees a little tighter, a small, hesitant smile curving his mouth. “That’s… kind of nice. I never thought… that somebody would like me that way. Maybe I’ll ask him about it?”  
  
“You should,” Domon says, voice sounding overly loud and enthusiastic. “So. Don’t worry about anything, okay? If you get a boyfriend, I’ll get out of your way.”  
  
Shion pauses. Frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean you’d probably want to move in with him at some point, right? Get out of this place? I know you’d get all concerned about me in that case, but it’s totally fine. You’d have my full support. As your best bro.”  
  
He ruffles Shion’s hair as he gets to his feet, smiling in a way that feels strange on his face, stretching out his shoulders as he heads for the kitchen –  
  
“What if I want to keep living with you, Domon-san?”  
  
He stops. Glances back to see Shion looking sad and lost, like an abandoned kitten left in a box in an alleyway. Suddenly he feels like he might cry.  
  
“What’re you talking about?” he laughs. “C’mon, Shion. This,” and here he gestures towards the apartment around them, “obviously isn’t gonna last forever. It’s just an in-between thing, ‘til we both work stuff out.” He takes a deep breath. Clears his throat. “You want breakfast? I’ll cook today. Requests are open – anything you like.”  
  
Shion is silent for a long time.  
  
“Pancakes,” he says finally, sounding more depressed about that than anyone rightly should. “You make them better than I do.”  
  
“That’s ‘cause you put all kinds of weird shit in them, bud.” He’s glad to face the cupboards and hunt around for ingredients with his back turned to Shion, so that he can finally let his smile slip. “Guess that’s another thing to think about, huh? If this Takeshi guy can deal with your bizarro cooking. He might be a keeper if he can.”  
  
The sound of sword blades clashing drifts over from the samurai show once again.  
  
“His birthday’s coming up, I think,” Shion says quietly. “Maybe I’ll make him some sugar cookies. I know he likes those.”  
  
His eyes are prickling for some reason. Domon blinks hard against it. “Yeah, see? You and him. It’s already meant to be, man.”


End file.
